


The Gold and the Purple

by threewalls



Series: Schirra [60]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: 709 OV, Archades, Bondage, D/s, Exhibitionism, F/M, Maledom, Post Game, Voyeurism, Wax
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-24
Updated: 2007-09-24
Packaged: 2017-10-14 09:31:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><cite>"The men of my family, we are taught to place the needs of others before those of our own."</cite><br/>Larsa Ferrinas Solidor, <span class="u">Final Fantasy XII</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gold and the Purple

**Author's Note:**

> Written with thanks to lynndyre for beta and encouragement.

The cords Larsa uses to bind her are always silk, too smooth to mark her skin, but stronger than she could have at first believed. Tonight, he has wound them carefully around her wrists, binding them together and forcing her arms taut behind her back. Her hands rest against her buttocks, fingers trailing down to touch her toes. Her legs are folded under her, bent knees splayed open to complete the pose. Penelo wears nothing but the pins in her hair, the silk tie over her eyes and his ropes.

The room is large by her standards, intimate by his. There is a bed, to which they may retire later, but the thick floor-carpet upon which she kneels is their far more usual venue for play. It has been covered tonight with a soft sheet the colour of crushed grapes, warm where her body has pressed. The air is warm, like the Estersand at dusk, their carpet surrounded by an ocean of candles. She can feel their light flickering over her bare skin. It makes her golden; he likes that. She can feel his gaze as well, a different kind of warmth; she likes that, likes it a lot more than she would have ever guessed. Penelo's flexible, could sit here all night like this, if that's what he wants, but Larsa hasn't been content with just looking in well over a year. Waiting patiently, she lets herself smile at the memory. If anyone proposed to her half as romantically as Larsa had approached her, like something right out of a song: on bended knee, the tender touch of his fine cotton gloves on her arm, his lips on her wrist...

Here and now, Penelo feels his fingertips reach for her, brushing over her shoulder, a guiding touch at the inside of her knee. She settles back as he directs, flexing against the binding, lips curving as she hears his breath catch. He's close, so close; if she shut her legs, she'd catch him.

A light breeze makes her shiver, and then she gasps, flinches-- warm rain spattering her skin, becoming fire, becoming tenderness, over the valley between her breasts.

He pauses; she licks her lips, eyes shut against silk.

"The candles--"

Penelo nods, says, "sure."

Stripes of liquid fire fall again over her exposed skin-- the heat, the burn, a jumping aftershock, out of time with the wax-- and they fall on and on, sparking on her shoulders, her breasts, her belly. It _hurts_ , everywhere, nowhere; she grabs her own ankles for something to hold on to. Penelo is shivering, shifting away, toes twisting up in the sheet. She can smell her own pleasure, and under her own high gasps, hear how rough Larsa breathes to watch her like this.

Wax lights on her inner thighs, and she yelps, and then arches further than the demands of her bindings, in case he mistakes it for protest. Her nipples ache, tightening as the wax over them hardens, as they burn anew.

Abruptly, finally, Larsa touches _there_ with his glove between her open legs, a teasing, testing brush when she's ready for so much more. Penelo begs aloud, so loud; he, here, does this to her. The walls are thin for his protection, thin enough for the guards to hear everything he does, every cry she makes.

His hand stills and she breathes, and next, there's the rough-smooth weave of his other glove brushing hard wax from her breasts.

Larsa curves his palm against her mound, his fingers tensed for her to rub against, as he explains in a whisper. It still sounds like a command. His arm wraps around her back, the close knit of his nightgown rubbing at her over-sensitised skin. Larsa's right there in front of her, his knees hard between hers, keeping her spread when her thighs long to close on his hand.

Larsa's mouth is too hot, not hot enough, sucking kisses onto her skin; she wishes she could see the marks as he makes them. He kisses her lips, her cheek, her ear, kisses strung together with words like beautiful, lovely, precious-- _mine, oh, my Penelo_ \-- rubbing harder against her, fingers sliding, filling her, fucking her. His rhythm stutters once, and then drives true, and Penelo hears herself come all to pieces, limbs shaking, voice high and scattered, held together by his arms.

He lets her lie drained against him as he unties her hands, picking at the knots by feel and memory, and unwrapping the cords, a loop at a time. Larsa's thumbs rub smooth, light strokes over her wrists, lingering along the tender undersides.

When Penelo raises her head from his shoulder, Larsa unfastens the blindfold and coaxes her head back. They kiss, for a while, and somewhere in there, her hands fall to her sides and Penelo remembers that she can open her eyes. There's a damp patch where his nightgown sticks to her bare thigh, and that answers one of her questions about what will happen next.

Sometimes, Penelo forgets that she's mistress to the youngest reigning emperor Archadia has ever seen. There's so much unreal about Larsa-- she won't be his last, but she's his first, and so far his only, but Larsa always seems more experienced than that-- about all of this, that sometimes she can't believe this is happening at all. Later, tomorrow or next week, when she's lying on her bunk in the Beirouge, this will seem like a fantasy.

Of course, right now, skin pulling tight and the lingering ache in all the right places, it's hard to believe she does anything but this.

His gloves are white, like her skin underneath them isn't, not in this light, but tanned and pink. And there are bruises, purple and lips-width, scattered upwards from under her breasts. Penelo knows she can't see them all.

"I think, next, a bath," Larsa says, eyes lit and smile dark. Penelo's legs are unsteady when he helps her stand. There's a path across the carpet, between the candles, and he leads her through.


End file.
